


Ghosts

by Ivori



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Broken Derek Hale, Broken Stiles Stilinski, Derek is a Good Friend, Drunk Stiles, Feels and fluff, M/M, Mature rating because there's too much drinking, Scott is a Bad Friend, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8002615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivori/pseuds/Ivori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The funeral is quiet.  It's so, so quiet, and Stiles has never handled quiet well.  He doesn't handle it well now, his knee is bouncing up and down as he waits, because he knows it'll be his turn to speak soon.  The room is large and the pastor's voice echoes off the walls and stained glass windows.  Stiles can remember coming here with his mother sometimes, on holidays.  But his father had never-</p><p>The lump that he's been constantly fighting against for days has reappeared and he struggles to swallow it down.  Don't think about that, he scolds himself.  Not allowed to think about him.</p><p>--</p><p>This fic was written to the song 'Ghosts' by BANNERS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

**GHOSTS – BANNERS**

 

 

 

The funeral is quiet. It's so, so quiet, and Stiles has never handled quiet well. He doesn't handle it well now, his knee is bouncing up and down as he waits, because he knows it'll be his turn to speak soon. The room is large and the pastor's voice echoes off the walls and stained glass windows. Stiles can remember coming here with his mother sometimes, on holidays. But his father had never-

 

The lump that he's been constantly fighting against for days has reappeared and he struggles to swallow it down. _Don't think about that_ , he scolds himself. _Not allowed to think about him._

 

Except he kind of has too. He's been forced to, constantly, day after day, ever since-

 

 _Not allowed to think about that either_.

 

Not allowed to think about the way he'll go home to a quiet house. Not allowed to think about how he'll never hear the coffee machine working in the middle of the night when the late shift is over, not allowed to think about how he'll never see the squad car in the parking lot ever again, not allowed, not allowed, _not allowed_.

 

'Stiles?'

 

He jumps at the soft hand on his shoulder. When he looks up, he sees Melissa watching him, her usually bright eyes reflecting the dullness he knew was in his own. She looks worried, though. 'It's.. It's time.'

 

Stiles clenches his jaw and stands up, the notecards clutched tightly in his trembling hands.

 

It's time. Time to read a bunch of fucking _shit_ he'd written down twenty minutes earlier because words can't make up for the loss of his father, or convey who his father was, or how much he had meant to everyone whose lives he had touched.

 

He still hadn't cried. Not yet. He can't, because if he does then he won't be able to pretend everything was okay and there wasn't this empty hole in his chest that made him just feel so...

 

 _Numb_.

 

His heart pounds as he walks to the podium, but it feels like everything is happening to someone else and he's just watching. Like some sort of out of body experience.

 

He supposes he should be grateful, he thinksalmost angrily as he places the notecards on the wooden podium. He's pretty sure if he broke his rules and thought about it too much he'd break.

 

'My dad...' He begins, his voice hoarse and husky from disuse.

 

It's hard to keep going. That fucking lump in his throat hasn't gone away and it's so hard to talk around it. It's hard to do a lot of other things, too. Like not look at the coffin to the right of him. _Not allowed_.

 

Stiles grips the sides of the podium, knuckles going white as he struggles to regain his composure.

 

He clears his throat and tries again. 'My dad... My dad was the best.'

 

Good, keep going, he has to _keep going_.

 

He can hear someone crying loudly in the back and ignores it. 'He was- he was brave. And good, and kind, and-'

 

That fucking lump again. It's making his heart hammer in his chest and if he wasn't so fucking numb maybe he would be worried.

 

He has to stop, though, and try to swallow it once more. As he looks up and searches the crowd, he sees so many people. There were so many people he didn't know his dad knew. The burly woman from the diner, the locksmith and his wife, the principle of the school. There were some familiar faces too, the entire police force, all standing at attention in the back, their obscenely old neighbour, Gertie...

 

His eyes wander to his own empty seat and the remainder of _Pack_ he had left. Melissa, Scott, Lydia. That's it.

 

The face he's really looking for won't ever be in a crowd again, it's laying in a coffin three feet to his right, and he looks away, gritting his teeth. After Allison, Isaac had left with Chris. Erica and Boyd were gone, _dead_ , his mind oh-so-helpfully supplied, Jackson was in England, and who knew where the fuck Derek had gone.

 

It was all because of the stupid Nogitsune. The bomb in the precinct had hurt a lot of people, including his dad. But he'd thought it had been okay, because his dad was alive. Fucking shrapnel bombs. By the time they realised a piece had entered his bloodstream, it was too late.

 

He's been silent too long. His shoulders and arms are shaking from how hard he's grasping the podium, but now it's like it's keeping him upright, anchoring him to his own body. Because right now, every part of him just wants to float away. To be done. His suit collar scratches at his throat and he clears it again.

 

He hates that this isn't the first time he's had to pull out that stupid suit he'd gotten for prom. There was an incident with a very pissed off gnome and he hadn't even gotten to go to the stupid dance, and his dad had helped him pick it out, too. The only events he's warn it to were funerals. Erica, Boyd, the combined burials of the two officers downed by the bomb, then Allison. Was it too much to ask that it stayed in the back of his closet?

 

The words on his notecards are blurred, and it takes him a moment to realise that he's going to cry. There are tears in his eyes and he will cry, except that he _can't_ cry, not now, because if he does cry now then he will _break_ and he can't do that, not here-

 

'My dad helped a lot of people. That was just who he is- was.' That stung. But hearing the past tense used for his friends had stung too. He was going to be fine, he was doing good. _Keep going, keep reading, wipe your fucking eyes_.

 

He doesn't finish. His voice chokes up and goes strangled and he shakes his head but it's too much. There are spots in his vision as someone stands and helps him back to his seat.

 

He doesn't look at the casket.

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

 

The house is empty. It's so, so empty and it's not just because he's alone, it's because he's had to sell everything he could to help pay bills. His father's insurance money went to the mortgage, but there's all those medical bills that are stacking up on the counter. The ones from Eichen House say, ' _Final Notice_ '.

 

There isn't much for him to do. It's summer now, and usually he'd be at Scott's, playing video games until the both of them became part of the couch.

 

But Scott doesn't text. No one invites him over, and in a way that makes it easier.

 

He sells his bed and sleeps in his dad's.

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

 

There is an incessant knocking on the front door, and Stiles sits with a bottle of Jack held loosely in his hand on the floor of the once-living room.

 

'What th' f'ck d'you want?' He slurs, glaring at the door but refusing to get up and actually answer it.

 

'Open the door, Stiles.'

 

He dimly recognises the voice, but right now he's so, _so_ drunk and _numb_ and he can't place it.

 

'Can' make me.' Is Stiles' excellent response. He takes another swig and doesn't care that it sloshes down his front because he's laying down.

 

The handle rattles, and if Stiles could be bothered to care about anything anymore, he'd remember that he's been leaving it unlocked. When it swings open, he winces and covers his eyes. _Too bright_.

 

'Stiles.' Says the familiar voice. It's closer now, whoever it is has walked in.

 

'Go 'way.'

 

There's a sigh, and then the bottle is taken out of his hands and he kind of wants to hit whoever it is, because that's fucking rude. He thinks he says that out loud and takes a swing at the stranger.

 

His fist collides with leather and it's weird, because he doesn't know anyone who wears leather except-

 

Stiles forces his eyes open, forces them to focus. 'D'rek...?'

 

Indeed it his. Surprise, surprise, the sourwolf returns.

 

There's another sigh, and Stiles resents that, because _fuck everything_ , that's why. 'Wha' you doin.'

 

'Putting you back together, apparently.' Says the not-so-stranger-anymore. He's lifted into a sitting position and _oh_ , that wasn't a good idea.

 

He tries to warn Derek but there really isn't much time. Suddenly he's vomiting all over himself and the floor, and it smells so bad. He hears Derek curse, but it's from farther away, so maybe he was safe from Stiles' mess.

 

Derek comes closer once he's done heaving and takes off his shirt, then literally _picks him up_ and if sitting up was a bad idea-

 

Stiles thinks he blacks out for a while because the next thing he knows, he's sitting in the tub in his boxers and there's water hitting him in the face and he's gasping and sitting up because-

 

' _Fuck_ that's cold!'

 

'You needed a wake up call.' And there's Derek, sitting on the edge of the counter like he'd always been there. His leather jacket is gone and Stiles wonders if he'd puked on it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he's coming back to his senses. He wants to wince at how horribly awkward this whole thing was, but then he realised that the _shower_ was on, and he can't afford the water bill.

 

Sitting up is hard and unpleasant and his head does a Thing that makes him want to puke again, but he manages to lean forward and shut off the water. Ignoring Derek's concerned look (since when does he look _concerned_ what the fuck), Stiles moves to stand and get out of the tub.

 

'Uh, no. You aren't going anywhere for a while.' Derek's grumbly voice is too loud in the tiny bathroom. Stiles only fights a little bit when he's pushed back into the porcelain tub.

 

Maybe he blacks out again, because when he opens his eyes it's dark and he's in his dad's bed with the covers tucked around him and his head feels like an elephant was stomping around on his brain. Not that that's unusual for him, nowdays. He's just surprised that he'd made it to bed this time.

 

'Good, you aren't dead.'

 

' _Jesus Christ_ -' Stiles nearly falls out of his bed at the voice, and maybe he wasn't as drunk as he thought, because Derek coming back had seemed like a dream or something. But that is obviously not the case.

 

Derek's leaning against the door frame, looking a bit wearier and older then Stiles remembered (but then again, don't they all?), his beard is thicker and he's got dark circles beneath his eyes. 'Sorry, didn't mean to scare you.'

 

Stiles realises his heart is still pounding in tandem with his head and he groans. 'What the fuck, dude.'

 

'Don't call me dude.' Derek says, walking forward and sitting on the edge of the bed. Stiles rubs his eyes and hates that he can barely formulate a proper thought, let alone a sentence.

 

'What do you want?'

 

Derek's face goes a bit pinched. 'I came to see how you were doing.'

 

Stiles lets out a bitter laugh that's a bit too dark. 'Livin' the dream, wolfboy.'

 

Derek bites his lip, and Stiles pretends not to notice the way his eyebrows furrow in concern as he holds out a glass of water and some Advil. 'Right. I can see that.'

 

Stiles follows his glance to the empty bottles that have been both tossed and placed in (or near) the wastebasket by the closet door. He suddenly feels very defensive, and he's too tired for this. 'What do you _really_ want, Derek.'

 

He's not expecting to see Derek's face fall, or how the way his shoulders slump. 'Scott says you won't talk to him, or anyone. I think he's an idiot for not coming over here to check on you, so I...' Derek trails off, like even he wasn't really sure what he was doing here.

 

Stiles kind of wants to throw up again because his head hurts so bad, but he sinks back into the pillows that don't really smell like his dad anymore even though he pretends they do. 'Scott's busy.'

 

Derek looks up at that, eyes narrowing. 'No, he isn't. It's summer, Stiles, no one is busy.'

 

Stiles just shrugs and pulls at the blanket. Derek's sitting on it. _Asshole_.

 

He takes a sip of his water, then swallows the pills. It's quiet for a while and he slips back into sleep without realising it.

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

The clock on the bedside table read 3:42 am, and his headache was pretty much gone. All that was left was the horrible bone-weariness that he could never get rid of.

 

Derek is still there, and Stiles wonders if he slept on the floor, because he had sold every item of furniture he possibly could. He wonders if he should feel guilty, but shrugs it off because nothing matters anymore, anyways.

 

He heads downstairs to go grab another bottle (because fuck Derek for making him not drunk anymore, he can't deal with this shit), then gives an outraged cry when he opens to cupboard and sees that it's empty. He turns on his heel, overbalancing and banging his hip bone on the counter in the process.

 

'Derek!' Stiles shouts angrily, walking over to the foot of the stairs. 'Derek, what the _fuck_ did you do?! Give it back, give them all back!'

 

Suddenly Derek is there, leaning over the banister,, hair sticking up on one side. He looks calm and collected. 'No.'

 

'No?' Stiles hisses, his eyes narrowing and his cheeks reddening in anger. ' _No_? That's all you have to say? Listen, fucker-'

 

'No, Stiles.' Derek sounds tired and he moves over to the top of the stairs. ' _You_ listen. I'm not going to let you do this to yourself.'

 

Stiles' laugh is a bit hysterical. 'Let me do this to- _let me_? You think you have any say in what I do or don't do, you're so mistaken-'

 

Derek doesn't seem to care that he's seething. It makes him even more upset, if possible, and he shouts curses at the older man. He begins to back away as Derek comes closer, angry tears sliding down his face.

 

'No, no! You don't get to come into my life and try and tell me how to live, Derek, you fucking asshole! You have no right to take what's mine or just stomp back in here with your stupid growly face and your stupid leather jacket-'

 

Derek's not listening, and now Stiles can't stop his ramblings because he's so tired and done. 'Who the fuck do you think you are?? You don't get to tell me how to handle the death of my family, Derek, not you.'

 

He sees Derek wince and feels some sort of emotion twisting in his gut before he's suddenly sobbing, sliding down the wall and onto the floor. _Not allowed_ , he thinks, but there's nothing stopping the flood of emotions now, nothing stopping the way his heart kind of gives up and _shatters_. Because he'd been holding it together for too long with pieces of duct-tape and band-aids and false hope that his dad would come walking through the door like nothing was wrong.

 

Derek just sits down beside him and let him cry.

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

He's still there two days later. Stiles has stopped crying, he finally ran out of tears and he doesn't think he's ever felt so tired.

 

His phone's shut off, he didn't have enough left over to pay the phone bill because he'd paid over two hundred dollars to stock up on drinks. He's glad they're gone now, glad that Derek threw them all out, because he didn't like it, even though he told himself he did.

 

That was another thing. Derek. He'd stayed there, watching Stiles have his breakdown. He hadn't said anything, he was just _there_ , and Stiles remembered that Derek had lost his family, too.

 

He suddenly craved the closeness, the understanding. Derek knew, Derek _knew_. He knew what it felt like to have a hole where someone should be.

 

It wasn't okay, it wasn't all better. But it wasn't as bad as it had been.

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

Stiles wasn't sure how long it had been. It's not like he kept a calender up and marked off the days since his father died. He knew it had been long enough, and that what he had been doing wasn't something his father would've wanted.

 

He takes a deep breath and follows Derek outside, into his stupid Camero (hadn't he gotten another car? What had happened to that one?).

 

'You ready?' Derek asks, and Stiles doesn't know how to answer. Part of him wants to say no, part of him wants to puke, part of him knows he needs to do this.

 

He doesn't have to say anything, in the end. Derek drives them over to the cemetery and Stiles' hands are shaking so badly he can't undo his seatbelt. He doesn't argue when Derek reaches over and clicks it free, then comes around and opens the door for him, or when Derek offers him a hand to help him out of the car.

 

Stiles isn't sure where he would be without Derek right now. Dead, probably. Scott never called in or stopped by to check on him, but Melissa had. Maybe he wouldn't be dead, just dying.

 

The cemetery is colder, now. Not just weather wise. The hole in Stiles' heart freezes when he sees the two headstones, one old, one new. He stops in his tracks, not caring that Derek had a hand on his lower back. He changes his mind, he's not ready, he can't do this yet.

 

'No. No, Derek, I can't, I _can't_ -'

 

'Yeah, you can.' Derek says, and he gives him a little shove forward.

 

Stiles... doesn't know what to do. Because that's his _dad_ , under there, his dad and his mom. He drops to his knees, his jeans thudding softly into the dirt, and just kind of...sits.

 

He's not sure for how long, he doesn't even notice when Derek sits beside him.

 

It's not as bad as he thought it would be. After a while, he starts talking quietly. And maybe it's awkward at first, but after a while it kind of just spills out and he had thought he couldn't cry anymore, but there were tears on his cheeks again and Derek was holding his hand, and it's not as bad as he thought it would be.

 

'Dad, I had to sell that stupid vase mom bought at that thrift store.' He's saying, wiping his free hand over his cold cheeks. 'It was so fucking- sorry, _freaking_ ugly, and the lady knew it. I think she bought it because she felt bad or something, because there's _no way_ she could've actually wanted that thing. And the hot water got shut off because I'm out of money but it's okay because I don't really take super hot showers anyways, you know? And the other day..'

 

His voice cuts out and he looks at Derek. 'The other day, Derek tried to make soup and it was so funny because it was just the stuff from the can but he managed to burn it anyways and I laughed for the first time in forever because he just looked so _mad_ at this can, dad-'

 

And there's a lump in his throat again. He goes quiet for a bit and it's only after Derek squeezes his hand that he can say, 'I miss you.'

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

They visit the Hale plot, too. Derek doesn't say anything, just lets his fingers slide on the cold gravestones and then they're walking back to the car.

 

That night, Stiles has a nightmare. He's shouting and crying and gasping for air when Derek finally manages to wake him up. He's shaking and can't bear to tell Derek that he was the Nogitsune again and was laughing and laughing and laughing as he shoved a knife into Scott, then Scott morphed into his father and his father just reached out a hand and touched his face so lovingly, like it was all okay, even though there was blood all over-

 

'Stiles, you've got to breathe, _breathe_ , Stiles.' Derek says, but Stiles just can't. He's tired and sad and his chest hurts so much and there's a rushing noise in his head and it takes him so long, so long to just stop shaking and obey Derek's frantic attempts to get him to start inhaling and exhaling.

 

He's so exhausted by the time he can breathe like a normal person that he just goes limp. It's then that he realises that he's in Derek's arms. It's also then that he realises that he doesn't mind, in fact, he clings to the werewolf with everything he has.

 

They don't go back to sleep. Derek whispers stories about his family before the fire, and Stiles listens.

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

Stiles starts selling essays to college students online again after a bit so he can turn the hot water back on. Because Derek likes hot showers, he'd mentioned it in passing to Stiles a few days back. Scott comes around for the first time since the funeral and gives him such a strong hug that he's nearly knocked off his feet.

 

'You smell weird.' Scott says as he pulls away.

 

Stiles doesn't really know what to say. He feels as though he doesn't really know Scott anymore. They've both changed so much, there had been so much pain and tragedy that the both of them were a far cry from the two freshmen wandering around the forest looking for half a body.

 

They settle for sharing a Reeses Peanut Butter cup that Scott had brought over, and a jar of homemade jam from Melissa. The Reeses are good, but the jam is to die for, and Stiles remembers when his mother used to go over to the McCall's house and help with canning season.

 

After Scott leaves, Derek tries to make toast to try the jam on, but manages to burn four pieces before he gives up and Stiles laughs again.

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

'Why'd you stay?' Stiles asks one night as Derek crawls into bed beside him. They'd been sharing for a while now, Stiles wasn't going to let the werewolf sleep on the floor anymore when there was an epic king-size bed that had plenty of room. 'Here. With me.' He clarifies when he sees Derek's confused expression. 'You could've just...checked and left. So why did you stay?'

 

Derek is quiet for a while, then says, 'I didn't have anyone.'

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose. 'Huh?'

 

'I didn't have anyone to take care of me after Laura was gone.' Derek's voice has gone very soft, and Stiles thinks that if it weren't such a quiet night, he would've missed the confession completely.

 

'Oh.' He says, his voice equally soft. The picture he gets in his head isn't very pretty. Derek, in a burnt house, all alone until some stupid teenagers stumble onto his property.

 

'I made some stupid decisions.' Derek admits. 'It wasn't just the whole...Peter thing. It was Isaac and Erica and Boyd.'

 

Stiles hears the pain in his voice when he says their names. He understands, too, because he feels that pain. Perhaps not as deeply as Derek, but he does feel it.

 

'I didn't treat them like family. I should've. It's what we all needed. But I was so scared and angry for so long that I just...' Derek's voice is filled with regret. 'I just... I should've treated them better. I grew up in a family of werewolves, I watched my mom and how she made everyone feel so loved even if she was scolding them...'

 

'I think they knew.' Stiles finds himself saying.

 

Derek goes still.

 

'I think they knew.' Stiles repeats. 'I think they realised how much you had gone through and loved you anyways. Because... when it counted...' He pauses, uncertain of how to voice what he wants to say. 'When it counted, you did treat them like family.'

 

'Stiles-' Derek's voice breaks off and there's a pang that goes through Stiles when he hears it. It sounds broken. And Stiles knows a thing or two about being broken.

 

'No, you did. We were pack. Even I felt the bonds.' He says firmly, turning to look at Derek across the bed. 'We were pack. You took care of us.'

 

He can tell Derek wants to argue, so instead of actually saying anything, Stiles leans forward and brushes his lips on Derek's.

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

Stiles sells the house. It takes him a long time, nearly four months. But moving in with Derek at his loft is free, and he knows he's not going to move on until he's out.

 

The lady who buys it has a very energetic little boy who bounces off the walls and talks to much and won't stay still. Stiles shows him his old room where the walls are still painted blue, and the little boy's eyes light up like it's Christmas.

 

'Blue, mom!' He squeaks as he tugs on her skirt. 'Mom, the walls are _blue_ and it's my favourite colour!'

 

Stiles is glad that they bought it, because he knows they'll take care of it.

 

Later that night, there's a Pack Meeting. It's not like the old ones, because there's no Allison or Isaac or Erica or Boyd or Jackson, but Stiles watches Scott introduce Kira and a spunky kid named Liam and Liam brings his friend Mason and Lydia flips her hair and tells Stiles that he'd better get a new phone soon because school was starting and she needed to give him notes.

 

And maybe it's not perfect, Liam says something and Derek actually _growls_ , but it makes Mason laugh until he cries and there's a funny feeling in Stiles' chest, like the hole was kind of, maybe filling up.

 

 

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

He's not sure what he and Derek are. They're both still so fragile, Derek isn't ready for a relationship, not after Kate _and_ Jennifer, and Stiles is still grieving his dad and wakes up with panic attacks sometimes. But they share a bed and work in tandem with one another and Derek actually ends up getting a job at the diner his family had helped start up years ago and Stiles sells even more essays now that school has started up and maybe they're not fixed yet.

 

They're getting there. For now, they're good with being broken together.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I made this for a dear friend of mine because....reasons? She's amazing and funny and very cuddly and I just thought I'd give her horrible feels because I love her so dearly. 
> 
> I'm such a nice friend.
> 
> As usual, Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine. Also, to explain some horrendous mistakes that are probably in here, I was up writing this at like, half three in the morning. So...yeah.


End file.
